Visiting Hours
by Lady Myotismon
Summary: Neville Longbottom goes to St. Mungo's frequently to visit his parents, but their unnerving condition has him spending most of the time with Gilderoy Lockhart. Complete for now, but I may be convinced to continue.


**A/N:** I've written about this pairing a hundred times. No, probably a thousand. But I've never actually liked the results before this one. This is my first posted Harry Potter fanfic in years! Exactly 1000 words, I believe. Should be an easy read. Please review :)

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**Visiting Hours**

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Cursive. Joined-up writing. The lines forming shapes. The shapes forming pictures. Page after page of this artwork. Obsessive. Crazed. Occasionally a letter or curve would shift slightly, transforming the image completely. The ink nearly filled the book.

"You're getting better," Neville said, and this was the truth. The first pages were hardly more than unintelligible, tortured scribble and they had transformed, like a butterfly, into something elegant and delicate.

"I know!" Gilderoy said, his face lit up by a brilliant smile. He took a framed photograph from his bedside table and passed it to Neville, who had seen it countless times. The autograph in the bottom corner was engraved to his memory. "See, the last few are almost as good as my original!"

"That's wonderful." Neville pushed the picture and the journal back to the older man, the swirls and swoops making him dizzy. He shook his head and looked away from the signatures, his gaze falling on his parents across the room. His mother was carefully flattening stacks of Drooble's Best Blowing Gum wrappers against the corners of her bedside table. His father stared wide-eyed out the window, where rain fell in torrents.

"Neville, will you show me yours?"

Neville snapped back to Gilderoy, who was turning to a fresh page of the journal. "What?"

"Your autograph. Can I see it?" he replied, offering Neville his frayed peacock quill.

"Er… I don't exactly have one," Neville mumbled. He had never signed anything before except for his class work.

An expression of utter confusion contorted Gilderoy's handsome face. "But then how do you write your name?"

Neville frowned and took the book and quill from Gilderoy's hands. For a few seconds, he gazed at the paper, lost in thought. His signature was hardly legible; Gilderoy would certainly be disappointed by it. How did men like Gilderoy get such fancy handwriting anyway? He had never seen a famous or important person who did not have a special signature. Maybe a person had to be born with good handwriting to become important or famous in the first place. He wondered if his parents wrote gracefully, before they –

"Neville, are you all right?" Gilderoy asked, placing a hand on his shoulder, startling him out of his musings.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Neville said, and quickly spelled out his name in his lazy scrawl, "It's not as nice as yours."

As Gilderoy glanced down, his eyes grew with awe. "I like it!" he said.

Nevile felt the corners of his lips rise into a grin. "Er… thanks. It's really not that good, though."

"No. It's fabulous! Some of the letters are joined and others aren't." He had not taken his eyes off the two words once. Neville admired how blue those eyes were, even in this gloomy, poorly lit room. In fact, everything about Gilderoy seemed to liven this place up. He remembered his visits before Gilderoy had been admitted. They had mostly been long, awkward silences as he sat on the edge of a seat pulled up between his mother's and father's beds, wondering if either even recognized him, staring at the stark white walls, the smells of a dozen potions from across the room assaulting his nostrils. It was all different now. The walls were decorated with portraits of Gilderoy before his accident, the smell of his shampoo dominated the room, and it was never silent. Gilderoy jumped at the chance to tell anyone how great his day had been.

Neville would never admit this to anyone, but he mostly went to St. Mungo's to visit Gilderoy now. When the day had been rough, he looked forward to the childlike enthusiasm and lyrical laughter of Gilderoy Lockhart.

Speaking of whom, he was being oddly quiet. Neville returned from his thoughts and noticed Gilderoy had already covered an entire page with "Neville Longbottom" written in his stylish calligraphy. He was already flipping to begin on another page.

"I don't like the Longbottom part very much," he said, not once looking up from the tip of his quill, "I think Neville Lockhart would sound much better."

And Neville felt his heart plummet to his stomach, where it was knotted and churned. He saw "Neville Lockhart" emerge from the tip of the quill, and he realized that it did sound better, it even looked better. The color rose to his cheeks and burned there as his heart climbed laboriously back to where it belonged, except now it felt bruised and swollen, creating pressure beneath his ribcage.

He decided not to say anything. Not to explain only marriage could make Lockhart his name. Because that would lead to an explanation of marriage. Which would lead to an explanation of love. And Neville had absolutely no experience with love. He did not want to mess up the definition, or give Gilderoy information that was wrong.

He decided that now was a good time to leave. The rain had let up outside and soon his parents would be taking a nap. So really there'd be no reason to stay.

He got to his feet and said his goodbyes to Gilderoy, who held out his arms for a hug, which Neville reluctantly decided to give him. Then he crossed the room, to his parents, whom he both hugged as well. His mother, as always, placed the stack of gum wrappers into his palm. He slipped them into his pocket and headed for the door.

But before he left, he turned. He walked back over to the blonde man and, for a breathless moment, stared into those clear blue eyes. He could see there was little within, which made it difficult to drown in them like he had imagined.

He softly touched Gilderoy's lips with his own. Not a kiss. No, not at all. Just a… a…

Well, he didn't know. But he didn't wait to find out. He quickly rushed out the door, afraid that his racing heart would jump out of his mouth and remain in Ward 49 forever.


End file.
